


Child of the Sky

by thelightofmorning



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Character Death, Child Abandonment, Child Death, Child Labour, Child Neglect, Class Issues, Corpse Desecration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Misogyny, Prequel, Religious Conflict, Violence, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-30 07:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: One day, Laina South-Wind might become a hero of legend and prophecy.But at the moment, she's a newly minted Apprentice of the Synod, assigned to do all the scutwork that the others at the Bruma chapterhouse don't want to do. Looked down upon for being a Nord and begrudgingly taught, she still knows this is the best option that an orphan with no kinship ties can expect. The alternatives are so much the worse.But her family hasn't entirely forgotten her. A grandmother in exile and a cousin in deep cover are looking out for her.She is a Nord. And few can quell a child of the sky.





	1. A Wonderful Opportunity

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, imprisonment, misogyny, alcohol use, classism, criminal acts, religious conflict, corpse desecration, emotional trauma, child neglect, child abuse, child labour and mentions of genocide, torture, child abandonment and child death. Teen!Callaina backstory; read ‘The Juniper Crown’ and ‘The Widening Gyre’ for context.

The Imperial Workhouse didn’t celebrate birthdays.

Laina South-Wind stood in line with three other orphans of the Great War, all of them born during Sun’s Dawn (or randomly given that birth-month if they came to the children’s dormitory with insufficient records), as the superintendent of County Bruma’s Imperial Internal Service inspected them. All of them were between the ages of ten to thirteen, sound of body and mind, with discernible talents that could be channelled productively beyond enrolment in the Legion on their eighteenth birthday. That was how the chief bureaucrat described them to Sister Mercy last year when the directive from the Elder Council was delivered to Cyrodiil’s northernmost province.

The twins Placida and Placido were destined for the great school in the Imperial City, where the Temples trained potential priests in common before guiding them to their appropriate Aedra. Placida was likely to be chosen by the Benevolence of Mara, as she was a kind-hearted girl who’d taken to herbology and the basics of Restoration training like a duck to water. Her brother Placido was of a martial bent, so it would be Stendarr for him and perhaps a stint as a Legion chaplain. Like everything else, the clerical arm of the military had suffered greatly during the Great War five years past.

The Argonian Neela-Tai had a head for numbers and a passion for routine, so it would be the Imperial Internal Service for her. Probably the taxation arm because it was the most hated externally and the weakest politically. Imperial orphans raised by the Workhouses were expected to work diligently and from gratitude, not for gain and power. Even in a post-war Cyrodiil, family connections counted for much, and you didn’t grow up in a Workhouse if you had any of _those._

Laina herself expected the Synod or the Temple school. She had no particular vocation but she prayed to Kynareth, goddess of the winds and sky, almost as often as she practiced the alchemy and sorcerous skills Sister Mercy had taught all the apt pupils in her care. Every spare moment she got, which was rare as idle hands were the Daedra’s playthings, she collected herbs, performed tentative experiments with alchemical mixtures, and cast Heal Self or Lesser Ward until her magicka was dry. It kept her busy when there was nothing else to distract her from bad memories.

The superintendent, related somehow to Count Iannus Carvain of Bruma, paced around in front of them. “Each of you has been blessed with the opportunity to serve the Empire which has raised you,” he announced in a nasal tenor. “I trust you will be appropriately grateful and will apply yourselves diligently to your duties. The Legion didn’t die at the Battle of the Red Ring for you to squander yourselves and your talents for base purposes.”

_In other words, don’t get any ideas about ambition or proper worth,_ Laina translated cynically.

“They are not stupid,” Sister Mercy reminded the bureaucrat. She was still the same after five years: soft white fur, slightly plump with muscle on her limbs, a gentle purr to her voice. The Benevolence held her up as an example that your racial origin didn’t have to determine your future. Anyone, even the daughter of Khajiit bandits, could become a productive citizen of the Empire.

“But they are young, and the young are prone to idle folly,” the superintendent countered. “Better discipline is drummed into them now instead of a soft hand leading to a waste of time and investment on our part.”

“If I recall correctly, you were in High Rock during the Great War,” Mercy remarked calmly. “All of these children saw more of hardship and war than you ever did. They are not stupid and will not shirk their tasks. I wouldn’t have suggested them for their roles otherwise.”

Beside Laina, Placido stifled a snort. The Workhouse hadn’t quite gotten his lack of tact out of him yet. It was a good thing the Vigilance of Stendarr didn’t require a silver tongue or sense of diplomacy or he’d be doomed from the start.

The Carvain paused, wind taken from his sails momentarily, before he sniffed. “Then they will bear the repetition of what they have been taught.”

He stalked along the line of orphans. “You twins are off to the Temple school. You have not the talent for sorcery or organisation but your piety has been noted. Remember to follow the Aedra’s commands and you will receive the spiritual rewards.”

If this man had ever done more than nod to the nearest shrine of the Aedra or mumble a prayer at appropriate times in his life, Laina was a Thalmor Justicar.

“The Argonian will go to the tax service. She has a head for numbers rare in one of her kind and there are never enough hands in that line of work.” He smiled thinly. “She will be honest because no one would think to bribe her.”

Neela-Tai’s feathered crest rose a little and she bestowed a flat gaze upon the Carvain. But five years of discipline had her bowing her head submissively, though if looks could have killed, there would be one less bureaucrat in the Empire.

He turned to Mercy. “I thought you said this girl was a Nord?”

“She is,” Mercy answered, a trace of irritation in her voice.

“So why are you recommending her for the Synod again? Nords aren’t fit for the intricacies of the arcane arts. Send her to the Temple school with the twins. She’d probably suit Mara’s service as you don’t need much in the way of brains to make simples or cast Healing spells.”

“Because she learned the simple magics I taught the children thrice as fast as anyone but for Placida,” Mercy told him. “She can not only call fire as any child can, but also frost and sparks. Her medicines are as good as any the local herbwives sell. Her magicka is as honed as any Apprentice of the Synod. To me – and believe me, good sir, I know Mara better than you – it would be a sin and a crime against the Mother Mild to squander an obvious god-given talent.”

It took all the discipline Laina had learned, before and after Cloud Ruler Temple, to remain there silent and outwardly impassive. If this man knew who’d bred her, she wouldn’t be so lucky as to go to the Temple school, let alone the Synod.

It would take a stronger man than this Carvain to withstand Mercy’s terrifyingly mild ice-blue stare. He visibly wilted before the force of her palpable disappointment and anger, nodding in acquiescence.

“Very well. It’s the Synod for her.”

The Imperial Workhouse didn’t do farewells. Once they were assigned to a life-path, the orphans were taken from the children’s dormitory with barely time to say goodbye to any friends they might have or to collect their meagre belongings and dispatched to those now responsible for them. Mercy gave them a blessing at the door of the Workhouse, her soft padded hands on each of their heads, before turning them over to whoever had been sent to fetch them.

Laina was handed to an adolescent Journeymage of Nibenese stock who was already an inch shorter than her but managed to look down a long nose at her. “Follow me,” he ordered, turning smartly towards the second tier of Bruma. So it was the local chapterhouse for her.

With a final glance at what had been her home for five years, Laina climbed the steps almost on the Journeymage’s well-shod heels. His ornate robes were crisp and new, the night-blue and pine-green dyes still unfaded, and there was a sense of well-fed satisfaction to his demeanour. “Thank Julianos for the sense He gave old Corellius,” the young man said over his shoulder. “If I had to grind another healing potion or run an errand, I would have lost my wits entirely.”

“You should thank Mara for giving Sister Mercy the stare She did,” Laina corrected tentatively. “It was almost the Benevolence of Mara for me because he didn’t have much opinion of a Nord’s intellect.”

“You don’t worship Mara?” the Journeymage asked in some surprise. “I thought She was the kind of bovine god you Nords preferred.”

“I pray to Kynareth,” Laina said simply. “She gave us Nords magic to Shout dragons from the sky and the strength to withstand Her harshest frosts.”

“You believe in dragons?” The Journeymage smiled indulgently. “I suppose we all have a favourite fairy tale.”

They reached the Bruma Synodic chapterhouse, which sat on the same row as the Fighters’ Guild, White Pine Lodge and the Jerall View. Inside, the front office was a place of bookcases, a simple oaken desk and floors that had been swept clean enough to eat from.

“Evoker Garinus, I fetched the girl from the Workhouse,” reported the Journeymage.

Garinus was a lean Colovian with hard eyes and a mouth tighter than a miser’s purse. His robes were faded and discreetly mended, his hands splotched with burn scars and stains of a dozen hues, and a combover imperfectly concealed his balding head. “Good,” he said in a rusty voice. “I don’t suppose she knows the basics of housekeeping?”

“I do,” Laina said quietly. “And my name is Laina South-Wind, sir.”

“Sister Mercy tells me she does have a genuine gift for magic,” the Journeymage told Garinus. “So old Corellius will be checking to make sure we’re teaching it.”

Laina went very still as the implications of his words sunk in. Had they been looking for some unpaid servant who would bear the name of ‘Apprentice’ but never learn anything?

“I’m not entirely stupid, Dario,” Garinus said testily. “Whatever native talent this girl might have, we will hone it. Akatosh knows that anyone with a sense of ambition transfers to Cheydinhal or even Arcane University the first chance they get. This girl won’t have that luxury, not until well into her twenties, so we need not worry about grinding potions or having to buy them from the Temples for a good decade. By then, I’m sure another orphan will have enough aptitude for magic to take her place.”

Dario clapped Laina on the shoulder. “See? You won’t have to worry about making your way as a Journeymage for many years. Do your duties well, apply yourself to whatever we teach you, and you won’t go hungry or homeless or join the Legion. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Laina met his eyes steadily. “Wonderful.”


	2. A Discussion of Herbology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of corpse desecration, genocide, torture, imprisonment and war crimes. You get to see a bit of undercover!Marius in this story.

“I fail to see why your presence is necessary, Ondolemar. I have Bruma well in hand. The humans know their place.”

The mer who was called Ondolemar by the Thalmor clasped his hands before him. Nurancar the Younger was an example of illustrious breeding, outstanding connections and absolutely no innate talent whatsoever. As the son of First Emissary Elenwen and Nurancar, the Chief Justicar assigned to Cyrodiil, he should have been working as a senior aide in the Imperial City. It was a testament to his incompetency that he was assigned to County Bruma and utilised as a blunt instrument against the local populace.

“Consider it an audit,” Ondolemar said mildly. “I know Bruma was the heartland of Talos worship in Cyrodiil, but I would have expected a reduction in executions five years after the Purge.”

Nurancar shrugged. “We have Nords drifting across the Jeralls, a few Blades up in the mountains among the bandits. You know how pernicious the false god’s worshippers are.”

“None of this was mentioned in your reports.” Ondolemar fixed the younger mer with a steady gaze.

“I was told to report the education of the populace, not rumoured sightings of an order too stupid to know they’re dead,” Nurancar muttered sullenly.

Ondolemar inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. There was little more he could do to Nurancar than issue a reprimand and a possible suggestion he be reassigned to Alinor where he could do no damage. “Tell that to Emissary Toreador in southern Hammerfell or the ten-mer assassination team we sent after Delphine Revanche.”

Nurancar blinked stupidly. “I don’t understand.”

“Rustem Aurelius – you know, the son of Arius who wields a naginata made of dragonbone – has piled a man-size cairn of Altmer heads at the main gate of Elinhir. I do believe Toreador’s head crowns it.” Ondolemar allowed himself an edged smile as Nurancar blanched. “Delphine Revanche… Well, it would take someone who your mother answers to for an authorisation of another strike against her, and our best analysts are suggesting sending an entire _half-century_ after her and employing scorched-earth tactics to bring her to ground.”

He was puckishly proud of his cousin and the Breton. It gave him hope that someone would survive to the time of the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn. There was only one more sign, as he interpreted things, and that idiot Sigdrifa and her new husband in Eastmarch would probably provide it sooner than anyone wanted or needed!

Nurancar had just enough self-discipline to not wet himself, though from the sheen of sweat on his clammy sallow skin it was a near thing. Terrorising petty thugs like this, no matter their connections, was one of Ondolemar’s few pleasures.

“Go and work on your reports,” Ondolemar said gently. “I wish to walk around the town and take in the sights and get a general idea of how the populace is doing. We want to educate them, not push them into a corner where they feel no choice but to rebel again.”

It was a relief to leave Nurancar’s luxurious office, even if it meant seeing the dilapidated excuse for a town that Bruma had descended into. The Great Chapel of Talos had been rebuilt into a more modest structure celebrating all the gods, the second and third rows were almost what they’d been two hundred years ago, and the stench of smoke and worse scents had finally dissipated. What made his heart ache for better days was seeing the once-proud Bruma people flinch as he went past, opening spaces in the crowd so that he might move freely, and giving their fellow humans glares of distrust and despair.

The marketplace was almost normal with its weathered wooden stalls, faded canvas awnings and vendors bawling out the virtues of their wares to all and sundry. Ondolemar smirked inwardly to see one lithe Argonian girl in a grey tunic and skirt picking the pocket of some overdressed idiot with the stamp of Carvain on his features and the most atrocious nasal tenor ever inflicted upon Nirn by the gods. Good for her!

But his eyes were drawn to the edges of the marketplace, where a black-haired child was picking weeds with a careful twist of the fingers and putting them in a sack. No, not a child; she was in early adolescence, taller than the Cyrods but shorter than the pureblood Nords. Five years in the Imperial Workhouse had put muscle and flesh on her frame and if the medallion around her neck was anything to go by, she’d been accepted as an Apprentice of the Synod.

Over a century of concealment allowed Ondolemar to keep his face pleasantly neutral as he strode through the marketplace, glancing neither right nor left. It had been five years since he’d last seen the girl and given her another name. He would not waste that effort by approaching her directly or even indicating that he had an interest in her.

But as a senior Justicar, it _was_ his duty to make sure the Synod was following the line of orthodoxy, and so he visited the humble chapterhouse the next morning just after breakfast.

The Evoker was a vulture of a Colovian who pinched every septim until it squeaked for mercy, which explained why the Apprentice was sweeping the floors with an old straw broom that likely dated to the time of the Oblivion Crisis. One Journeymage puttered around the workroom with the kind of arrogance that indicated connections over competency. If Regan Mac Lanna had been around to see the state of what her Guild descended into, the last Guildmaster of the Mages’ Guild would have been incandescent with rage. Even Ondolemar, a lackadaisical mage at best, was unimpressed by the state of the chapterhouse and its inhabitants.

“We had an audit last year,” complained Garinus after Ondolemar introduced himself.

“I know. This is more of an informal visit,” Ondolemar said with a pleasant smile plastered on his face. “I heard you had an original copy of Oronrel’s _Herbs of the Imperial Province._ I’m no alchemist but the mer is a witty author and Nurancar’s office is short on reading material.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Garinus admitted with a shrug. “My talent lies in Alteration, not alchemy.”

“Third bookcase from the front door, second shelf next to the _De Rerum Dirennis,_” announced the Apprentice, pausing in her sweeping.

“Thank you, child,” Ondolemar said mildly. “You’ve read it, then?”

“I’m the one who does the alchemy around here, so I had to,” was her answer. “Personally, I find it lacking in herbs from the north of Cyrodiil, particularly County Bruma. You can tell Oronrel has never been north of Skingrad.”

“Apprentice!” snapped Garinus. “It is not your place to criticise the First Adjunct’s understanding of herbology.”

“He’s a sound alchemist. It’s just his herbal knowledge of the north that’s lacking,” she replied, knuckles white as she held the broom. “You told me it’s my job to know these things, Evoker.”

“She has a point,” the Journeymage said with a hint of insolence from the workroom.

Garinus’ nostrils flared. “It is not your place to… to…”

Ondolemar cleared his throat gently. “As a teacher, surely you must be pleased to see your student excel?”

The Evoker harrumphed. “She needs better manners!”

“I asked her a question and she answered honestly.” Ondolemar examined his nails nonchalantly. “That is to be commended in this sorry day and age.”

The Apprentice quickly returned to sweeping the floors as Ondolemar went over to the bookcase and selected the book. Personally, he thought Oronrel was a pretentious idiot whose main claim to fame was being a cousin to Ocato of Firsthold, the sadly assassinated post-Oblivion Crisis Potentate. But Ondolemar was an appreciator of witty authors and fine cuisine, so choosing this volume as a bit of light reading would not be out of character.

He made a mark on some parchment to return the book in two days and left the chapterhouse. Laina was alive, sane and demonstrated both intelligence and spirit. Hope wasn’t entirely lost for the Aurelii.

Dark times were coming and he feared that the bloodline of Martin Septim would be needed once more. He would keep the girl alive, teach her as much as he dared, and pray that it would be enough.

…

The old crone, swathed in tattered shawls and skirts, entered Bruma from the north without any incident. In the lower sections of Bruma, where the ramshackle buildings leaned together like drunks seeking warmth, a bent, rough-voiced Nord went without comment. The other Nords were too busy keeping their heads down and accusing each other of bringing the Thalmor upon them to pay attention to her. It reminded her of the city-born Reachfolk before and after the war.

Catriona should be rejoicing in seeing the lowlander Nords flinch and quail like her people back in the Reach after the Markarth Incident, but she was mostly tired and sad. She and Madanach had gambled and lost, becoming exiled or imprisoned in the process. Where had they gone wrong? Only the gods knew, she supposed.

It took a few handfuls of septims but the old crone soon acquired a shack near the Restful Watchman, a tavern where the ne’er-do-wells congregated. Five years after the Great War and Bruma was still short of healers, so even her meagre cures sold well enough to pay the rent to the Thieves’ Guild. Corvus, its leader, had been a Blade; he accepted her word that she was a witch from the Reach who’d fled the Markarth Incident with a grimace and a nod. Talos had done nothing for him and Catriona suspected he no longer worshipped the god. As it should be.

She’d been settled for a few weeks and just sold out of her daily ration of potions when the girl who might be her granddaughter arrived. “Neela-Tai, if Garinus finds out I’m down here,” she was hissing to an Argonian lass in similar coarse grey wool garments, “I might lose my place.”

“You won’t. Dario’s too good to work and Garinus is too tight to hire a servant,” the Argonian assured her blithely. “Besides, we don’t know for _certain_ she’s associated with the Guild and you need more herbs to sell some potions on the side-“

Neela-Tai was a name that had come up in Guild discussions; an apprentice pickpocket, if Catriona understood correctly. The Guild ruled in the lowest parts of Bruma, more thoroughly and fairly than the Count in his castle. Perhaps better than she and Madanach had ever managed in the Reach.

“I’m always happy to help a sister in the art,” croaked Catriona reassuringly, making sure her enchanted shawl – the one that hid her true aspect as a Hagraven – was pinned securely around her shoulders. Corvus might suspect she was more than a simple witch but given he had no other alchemist at hand, he wouldn’t make a big deal about it unless she drew unwelcome attention to them. Which she would not. Catriona had learned patience over the past year.

Reluctantly, with a glance over her shoulder, Laina followed Neela-Tai into the little shack. In the bright glow of Catriona’s magelights, the resemblance to Sigdrifa was stark, though softened by the beaky Colovian nose and the olive-bronze complexion. This girl was her granddaughter, confirmed Hircine-enhanced senses, blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone.

“I am Catriona,” she said, offering her hand.

“Laina South-Wind,” the girl said softly, shaking it once. “Neela-Tai tells me you sell herbs and cures.”

“I do,” Catriona confirmed. “I trade in kind, coin, barter or service.”

There was a wary glint in her blue-green eyes that made Catriona’s heart ache. “I don’t have any coin and I can’t trade anything made from Synodic supplies.”

Catriona smiled reassuringly. “I’ve seen you gathering weeds in the street. If you trade me what you make from that, I will see what herbs I can spare you from my work.”

Laina glanced at Neela-Tai with an obvious “Can you trust her?” gaze and the Argonian nodded.

“Fine,” the lass said. “I need the practice and Evoker Garinus is…”

“He’s tighter than a clam’s ass,” Neela-Tai finished bluntly.

Catriona decided that she liked Neela-Tai as she cackled in amusement. “Never fear, child! I am not stingy with my time or teaching. We are both sisters in the art, you and I.”

It had been decades since she last taught. Catriona was surprised to discover she missed those days at the College, the days before Dengeir and all the sorrows in her life.

“I’m not a witch,” Laina said softly. “I worship Kynareth.”

Neela-Tai winced. “Laina!”

“Kynareth is revered as one of the great gods in the Reach,” Catriona reassured her granddaughter. “We call the Aedra and Daedra the Right-Hand and Left-Hand Gods, lass. I won’t bring you to worship Hircine as I know you won’t bring me to worship Kynareth.”

“I’m sorry,” Laina said with a flush.

Catriona smiled. “It’s alright. Now tell me, what herbs have you to spare?”

This granddaughter of hers would not go the route of her mother. Catriona would make sure of it.


	3. Execution Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and corpse desecration.

It was execution day. Once a month, the Thalmor and the Legion rounded up bandits, Talos worshippers and other undesirables, executed them by beheading, and piked their heads at the gates of Bruma.

Anti-nausea medications sold well that day and so Laina compounded ginseng, marshmerrow and somnalious frond into small pastilles for the crowd. Not as powerful as a true potion, even a cold or hot infusion, it was still cheaper than buying an entire vial. Garinus was eager to hang onto every septim for as long as he could and woe betide Laina if she didn’t save him every possible groat.

Neela-Tai and her friends would make a good profit today. Laina had no idea how the Argonian managed to balance her dual trades as Thief and apprentice tax collector. Where would she find the time? But maybe one trade led into another, if Garinus’ complaints about the Revenue Service were anything to go by.

Catriona was selling her own cures today and doing brisk business. Whatever the old herbwife was – and Laina was fairly sure she was more than some ancient Reach witch – she was a more than competent alchemist who was only happy to share her knowledge with Laina. In return, she taught her about the herbs of Cyrodiil, which Catriona knew very little about. It seemed fairer that way.

Ondolemar was walking among the crowd, stopping at various vendors and occasionally buying something small. It was a marvel how everyone seemed to ignore the marks of mannish blood in him, from the rounded features to the pale sclerae to the bulky build. Maybe the Thalmor were so arrogant that they couldn’t comprehend or believe the Blades would be able to slip a deep cover agent in their ranks.

The pastilles sold for a septim each and Laina soon had a small pouch of coins that she tucked into her tunic for safekeeping. Neela-Tai wouldn’t steal from her but one of the other pickpockets would and she didn’t need a mark of negligence against her name when it came time for promotion. Bad enough Garinus would go as slow as he dared so that he’d have free labour for ten or more years. She didn’t need anything else holding her back.

There were three people up for execution. Two came from a bandit group operating in the Jeralls and the third was a hunter. All Nords; most of the heads on pikes were from Nords. Laina had to wonder if the Thalmor and Legion weren’t just executing Nords when the quota was running low, or whether they were trying to break the spirit of anyone who might rebel, like that failed coup in western Skyrim a year or so ago.

One, two, three: they died quickly and without a sound after being given last rites by the local Legion chaplain. Idly, Laina wondered how Placida and Placido were doing in the Temple school.

The crowd dispersed and she headed straight to the Synod chapterhouse to hand over the coin to Garinus. She still had enough daylight to gather some herbs and go to Catriona for another lesson in alchemy. Kynareth knew she wasn’t learning anything about it from the Synod.

Garinus was at the front desk as always, dozing; Laina deliberately closed the door hard to wake him. She didn’t trust Dario to not pilfer coin left on the desk. He was very spendthrift despite receiving a generous stipend from his family in County Bravil. “Here’s the coin from the pastilles,” she told the blinking Evoker. “We’re running out of flour and olive oil.”

“Are we out?” Garinus demanded querulously as he counted out the coins.

“Not yet, but soon-“

“Then bother me when we are out. We don’t have the money to just top up things whenever you please.”

“It’s market day,” Laina said patiently. “The flour and olive oil will be cheaper today than it will be at week’s end, when we are out of it. That’s assuming the North Wind Trader won’t be out of it themselves, what with Jester’s Day coming up.”

“Then we will do without. I won’t waste money-“

“You mean I’ll do without!” Laina snapped. “You and Dario get stipends, Evoker. You can go to the Jerall View and eat! But unless I can scrape together enough weeds to make into a potion and sell it for a pittance, I won’t have food. The Workhouse doesn’t feed me anymore. That’s _your_ job in return for _my_ service.”

“If you find your Apprenticeship so unsatisfactory,” Garinus said flatly, “You can always return to the Workhouse and prepare to join the Legion.”

Laina clenched her fists as the books in the nearest bookcase began to rattle. “If you try to throw me out, _Evoker_, I will go to Corellius Carvain and tell him you’re starving a resource of the Empire entrusted to you!”

Garinus snorted. “Who would believe the misbegotten brat of Nords who worshipped a false god?”

Laina’s magicka surged forth in a ring of frost and force, books flying from the case to be flung in Garinus’ general direction even as ice warped the floorboards of the front office. The Evoker cried out as he tried to bat the volumes away, unable to concentrate long enough to invoke his own magic, and then he dove behind the desk until her magicka ran out.

When he rose and launched Sparks at her as a means of correction and a way to drain what was left of her magicka, Laina was able to cast Lesser Ward long enough to break that spell too.

If Dario hadn’t arrived at that moment, full of wine from the Jerall View, something very unfortunate for one or both of them would have happened.

“I miss all the fun,” he complained as he stepped into the front office. “What happened here?”

“The Evoker seems to think I can do without flour and olive oil over the weekend because he won’t give me the coin to buy it now!” Laina said angrily. “He told me to go back to the Workhouse if I didn’t like it!”

Dario slowly turned around, taking in the radius of damage that surrounded her, and whistled. “Telekinesis and Frost Cloak in tandem. Been reading ahead, have we?”

“Something like that,” Laina admitted. “Kynareth knows this tight bastard we call an Evoker isn’t teaching me shit.”

The silly-ass expression had dropped from Dario’s face to be replaced by a keen hunter’s gaze. “Well, Garinus, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“E-Excuse me?” demanded the Evoker.

“I said, what do you have to say for yourself?” Dario asked calmly. He pulled a medallion from his robes – silver to Laina’s copper and Garinus’ gold, but embossed with the two raised hands with open eyes in the palms of an Evoker. He was nineteen or twenty, if Laina recalled; too young to be an Evoker, right?

“That’s a forgery,” Garinus said, blanching.

“No, it isn’t.” Dario smiled and for a moment, he was the lazy, arrogant Journeymage once more. “If you’d been half as gifted at Alteration and Restoration as you claimed to be, you would have understood that an Evoker could extend their youth by diligent use of both skills. My name _is_ Dario, but I am not a Vendicci.”

The colour had completely drained from Garinus’ face. Laina decided to stay still and let her magicka trickle back. She didn’t even know she could _do_ what she did.

“Dario _Mago_?” he gasped.

“Finally, you show some evidence of something other than laziness and veniality,” Dario said dryly. Gone was the lazy Nibenese accent; a clipped Heartlands’ educated one replaced it. “The Synodic Council was wondering why the Bruma chapterhouse lost so much money despite only having one Evoker, so I was asked to investigate. My findings don’t paint you in a very good light, old boy.”

Something sly trickled into Garinus’ gaze. “You haven’t sent the report yet. What a shame the young Apprentice lost control of a spell too advanced for her skills and killed you both.”

He threw a fireball at them both.

Laina just managed to raise a Lesser Ward in time, thanking Sister Mercy for all the training she’d provided at the Workhouse. The fireball shattered the Ward but it gave her enough time to invoke Oakflesh and for Dario to raise his own Greater Ward. There was enough of it left to set the books scattered around them on fire.

Dario raised a palm and a swirl of ice radiated out from him, skimming over Laina’s hardened Nord-bred skin, to still both the flames and slow down Garinus. His next attack, a Thunderbolt, briefly coruscated around the Evoker’s form before he collapsed as a blackened corpse.

The mage-agent looked down and blinked at the unharmed Laina. “You _are_ a Nord.”

Oakflesh winked out and she began to shake uncontrollably. The stench of burned wood and flesh-

Dario placed a hand on her shoulder, casting Calm with a burst of green light, and the panic drained away.

“You did well, Apprentice,” he said softly. “I didn’t realise Garinus was capable of casting Fireball.”

He stepped delicately through the debris to make sure of Garinus with an ice spike to the throat.

The door was slammed open by Ondolemar and one of the Bruma county guard. “What in the name of Auri-El is going on here?” the mer demanded.

“Synodic investigation that came to a premature conclusion when Garinus tried to murder an Apprentice,” Dario told him coolly. “There are no Talos worshippers here; you need not trouble yourself.”

“Journeymage?” the county guard asked nervously.

“Dario Mago, Senior Evoker of the Synod,” was the mage-agent’s response. “Garinus had been skimming from the treasury for a while but not producing anything useful, so I was sent to investigate. I assure you, sir, I don’t usually engage in mage duels with an Apprentice in the middle.”

“You had me fooled,” Ondolemar grumbled. “I thought you were a lazy git.”

“The mannerisms of a misspent youth,” Dario said dryly. “I will, of course, fill out an appropriate report for Count Carvain’s court and pay any appropriate fines.”

“Is he telling the truth?” the guard asked Laina, who was still hugging herself.

She nodded quickly.

“Fine. I’m not paid enough to pry into Synod affairs. I’ll summon the priest to take care of the rest.”

The guard walked out as Dario raised an eyebrow. “Fine civic spirit there.”

“My order’s done a good job of destroying it,” Ondolemar said softly. “Not all of us Justicars are monsters who take pleasure in our work, Evoker.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of your tender heart, Ondolemar.” Dario rounded the desk again, wiping his boots fastidiously. “But this is Synodic business, not Thalmor, and I must ask you to leave the chapterhouse premises immediately.”

Ondolemar held his gaze for a moment before nodding curtly and leaving.

“You did well, Apprentice,” Dario repeated, turning to Laina. “If you were a few years older, I’d sponsor you into Arcane University itself.”

Laina shrugged awkwardly. “Sister Mercy at the Workhouse trained me to use Restoration and I practiced it a lot.”

“Some are born with talent. Others are born with diligence. Those who are blessed with both will become great. Perhaps you will be one of them.” Dario sighed and looked around the ruined front office. “Sadly, we’re often the ones left cleaning up the mess. When the priest comes, I want you to check which books are salvageable and which ones will need to be replaced. The Synod’s work is never done.”

Laina would remember those words for a very long time.


	4. Sun's Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for underage drinking and mentions of death, violence, fantastic racism and religious conflict.

Like the Imperial Workhouse, the Synod didn’t celebrate birthdays.

It was Sun’s Dawn, Year 181 of the Fourth Era and Laina was now fourteen. As she had last year at the Workhouse, she stood silently as Corellius Carvain, the superintendent of County Bruma’s Imperial Internal Service, examined her to determine her continued fitness to be a mage. Until she was eighteen, the Empire was her guardian and that meant it wanted to make sure she was diligent, grateful and obedient for the chance to be more than another grunt in the Legion.

Eleven months, give or take a few days, since she’d survived a duel arcane between the renowned Evoker Dario Mago and the venial Garinus – a duel that had been provoked by her own lost temper. If that had been in Dario’s report to the Synodic Council, the new Evoker Philomena Gracchi said nothing of it when she came with a Breton Journeymage named Eduard and two Apprentices from the County Cheydinhal Workhouse named J’datharr and Maria Torresi. Laina had more lessons and less chores, Philomena and Eduard drilling her in the basics of the Schools excepting Conjuration, which was forbidden to the Synodic mages. Only when she demonstrated an Apprentice-level understanding of the theory was she permitted to follow her own course of study.

Ondolemar came and went as the Thalmor allowed him. He’d told Philomena a highly edited version of the truth that he’d found her in the ruins of her home and therefore wished to see how she’d grow. Anyone who became an Evoker of the Synod was competent, but it became readily apparent that Philomena was a better administrator than a politician, and so she took the mer’s word for it.

Catriona continued to ply her trade as a herbwife and hedge-witch in the poor quarter of Bruma. Laina was certain she was more than a witch and simple worshipper of Hircine but no one, not even Neela-Tai, were forthcoming. No one robbed the old woman though; not after the scattered limbs of a freelance burglar were found in front of the Restful Watchman last month.

The elf taught her the lore of the Blades; the crone the lore of the Reach; the Synod the lore of the lost Mages’ Guild. Laina sometimes thought she’d never remember it all, or get it mixed up, or reveal something that she shouldn’t have. But somehow between the strain and the pain, she made it through each day, each week, each month. Another year of her life gone; another year to come.

“Progress?” Corellius finally asked Philomena after examining her like a horse he wanted to buy.

“She’s diligent, which is more than I can say for my other Apprentices,” Philomena reported in her light, calm voice. “If I wanted to, I could easily invest her as a Journeymage Alchemist, she’s that good with the herbs and art.”

Corellius raised an eyebrow. “If you wanted to?”

“I don’t believe in releasing an Apprentice as a Journeymage until sixteen,” Philomena told him. “Laina will be competent enough for more than one School by that time; she’s already nudging Adept competency in Alteration, I believe she’ll reach similar proficiency in Restoration and possibly Destruction by next year’s examination, and she’s learning the Apprentice-level theory for Illusion and Enchantment after eleven months’ of real teaching.”

His other eyebrow rose to join the other. “Are you saying she’s a magical prodigy?”

Three years of learning from Esbern at Cloud Ruler Temple, games designed to shape a young mind and will to the understanding of the arcane. Up before dawn to work on her chores and alchemy, then hours of poring over the textbooks supplied by the Synod or demonstrating spells to the satisfaction of her superiors. Afternoons and evenings ostensibly free, but being filled with dragonlore and herblore, burning through magicka as she struggled to fit theory into practice. More reading until the midnight bell, this time histories and politics as she tried to understand the forces that led to Cloud Ruler Temple’s downfall.

“If my other Apprentices worked as hard as she, they’d be ‘prodigies’ too,” Philomena said dryly. “But Laina _will_ go to Arcane University; she has the talent and the drive. I won’t have it said that I dispatched a half-trained Apprentice to that hotbed of politics before she’s of an appropriate age, however. Make of that what you will, Lord Carvain.”

Arcane University! Dario Mago had hinted as such after the Garinus incident but Philomena had confirmed it. Yet not until sixteen, at least. More like seventeen or eighteen, because a certain amount of maturity was expected of anyone studying beyond the Adept-level spells.

Corellius nodded in satisfaction. “Very well. The Great War left us short of sorcerers as anything else. I will confirm that she is to stay here for another two years.”

Philomena’s tone was as dry as the deserts of Hammerfell. “You’re too kind, Lord Carvain.”

After Corellius departed, Laina allowed herself a shaking of her clasped hands in triumph. By the time the Evoker turned back to her, she was all grave composure once more.

“If you think you worked hard before, Apprentice, you will think it a holiday compared to the coming year,” Philomena said firmly. “You have mastered the basics. Now it is time to learn the true meaning of Adept.”

Laina was already realising she’d celebrated too soon.

…

Catriona handed her granddaughter a cup of magicka potion, watching the girl drink it down in one gulp. “You must remember to eat and drink regularly,” she admonished as she passed over bread and cheese. “Sleep, too.”

“I have so much to learn!” Laina protested. “Between you and Marius and-“

Her mouth snapped shut as she blanched.

“Marius?” Catriona asked softly.

“I can’t tell you,” was Laina’s response. “You’d get him _and_ me killed.”

The Hagraven smiled sardonically. “What you know about me would get me burned as a witch in Cyrodiil, child.”

Laina looked around and then raised her hands, casting Muffle on the shack.

Catriona raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me you were learning Apprentice-level Illusion.”

“Philomena wants me to be an Adept in all the Schools practiced by the Synod by the time I go to Arcane University,” Laina answered.

“You mean they don’t practice all of them? Which one do they ignore?”

“Conjuration.”

That just proved the Synod were the idiots Mirabelle and the others at the College claimed them to be.

“Stupid of them. Even if you never delve into the necromantic aspects, an Atronach can fix a lot of problems in a hurry.” Catriona sighed and shook her head. “So who is Marius?”

“I will tell you if you tell me who you really are and why you care so much,” Laina shot back.

“Agreed.” Catriona unpinned her shawl and lowered it to her arms, dismissing the Illusion on it. “My name is still Catriona, little one. Catriona mac Fereda, to be exact. Hag of the Glenmoril Coven, Priestess of Hircine… and mother to a daughter who went to the Shieldmaidens of Talos and came back a heartless zealot who butchered her own kin in the Reach.”

Laina blanched pale enough for the resemblance to Sigdrifa to be prominent. “H-Hagraven?”

“Yes.” Catriona wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. “And a grandmother who wanted to pass on what knowledge she had to a granddaughter abandoned by her own mother.”

Laina reached out, grabbed the bottle of Alto wine used for cleaning wounds, and drank half the bottle in one go. Catriona could hardly blame her, to be honest.

“Gah!” she spluttered. “A Hagraven! That explains my mother!”

Catriona smiled wryly, plucking the bottle from her hand. “Sigdrifa comes to her flaws on her own merit and the blood of Dengeir, not through me.”

Laina ran her shaking hands through her black hair. She was taking the news rather well for a child raised from infancy to believe all Hagravens were inherently evil. “Marius is a Blade. My father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandmother were Blades. I’m learning the dragonlore.”

“You don’t need to tell me who he lives as,” Catriona said gently.

But she had a good idea who it was. That half-human elf pretending to be a Thalmor agent.

Her granddaughter nodded in relief. “Thank you… Grandmother.”

A place gone cold warmed again in Catriona’s heart and she found herself smiling.

“Now that you know who I am, we can dispense with the herblore, lass. You know as much or more than me on the matter.” Catriona reached out her hand and cast a violet-black sphere of energy. “From me, you will learn the theory of Conjuration. What that Synod doesn’t know can’t hurt them but I’d be very displeased if you got yourself killed because you can’t summon an Atronach in a hurry.”

It was good to be a teacher again.


	5. Be the Mage You Were Born to Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, religious conflict and corpse desecration. It seemed right to end it here.

_4E182_

Laina had been with the Synod for two and a half years now. It was Sun’s Height, the middle of summer, and she had permission to leave the city walls for errands and herb-gathering expeditions. Most of the magical theory up to Adept in the Schools practiced by the Synod was hers now and while she had learned much of Conjuration from her grandmother, she still only knew Conjure Familiar as a spell. Even that would get her cast out if Philomena knew.

What was needed today was bone meal (a polite way of saying ‘the ground dust from ancient bones) and snowberries for a special resin to be painted on the smithy’s wooden walls. The best source of it was north of Bruma in the foothills of the Jerall Mountains, near Pale Pass and the southern fringe of the old Nord tombs that dotted the landscape. Because snow lingered there even in high summer, Laina wore fur-lined boots and a long-sleeved robe of blue and green. Even the Nords could get frostbite if careless.

The blood-red snowberries were easy to find but she was forced higher into the Jeralls for the bone meal, higher than she’d ever gone. She eventually found herself in front of an ancient tomb with the worn heads of the Dragon Cult watching over it. From Ondolemar, she’d learned that County Bruma was once part of Skyrim whereas Falkreath had been considered part of the Colovian Estates until Talos had changed the borders to be consistent with the mountains.

Reluctantly, she entered the tomb. This resin would pay quite a bit, as the blacksmith was one of the more prosperous folk of Bruma. Her training with the Synod was only free to Journeymage; Arcane University would grant her a small stipend, bed and board, but Philomena admitted it wouldn’t be enough to sustain the pace of learning she’d undergone. It was why so many Synodic mages without family, money or connections languished at Journeymage for years.

There was hanging moss, great for poultices, and various fungi that had alchemical properties that she gathered and stored in her satchel. She was so focused on storing them properly that she nearly got killed by a draugr, the Nord equivalent of a zombie. It was only the agility instilled in her by the calisthenics she’d kept up on leaving the Workhouse that kept her alive.

Last year, Philomena had reluctantly taken the Apprentices to a Synodic facility in Cheydinhal where various kinds of preserved corpses were stored. The Cyrod necromancer, drawing on centuries of elven influence, used potions and resins to preserve their undead minions in a state of semi-decay. From the looks of the draugr, the Nord necromancer embalmed their undead by freeze-drying them, giving them striated flesh over bone that moved more rapidly than a traditional zombie. They were still vulnerable to Restoration spells, though, and this one was driven away by Turn Undead.

She should have been sickened by the delving into ancient coffins and extracting the brittle bones of draugr that had lost their motivating power but after the first few times, she became indifferent to it. Bone meal, when mixed with certain herbs, also attuned one’s mind towards Oblivion and allowed them to cast Conjuration spells more easily. Not that she’d admit to knowing that. Philomena and the Synod would have been horrified, then promptly thrown her out. _If_ she was lucky, she’d be sent to the College of Whispers. If not… Unauthorised Conjurers had unpleasantly _warm_ fates at the hands of the Vigilance of Stendarr.

There were more draugr and Laina was able to repel most of them before running into the next area of the tomb. Some of the carvings were fascinating, depicting ancient Nords worshipping the dragons and figures wearing metal masks with cruel gazes. Ondolemar had told her the Dragon Priests had once ruled over the Nords at the behest of draconic masters.

She reached the inner sanctum with a satchel full of alchemical ingredients and some grave goods she shouldn’t have looted but were small and valuable, mostly gems, ancient silver coins and the odd piece of ornate enchanted jewellery. The most powerful draugr, generally a champion of the Cult or a Dragon Priest, was entombed here and there was no getting past it.

Laina took a deep breath, cast Ironflesh and Stendarr’s Aura, and called Vampire’s Bane to her hand. The Synod included the same Restoration curriculum as the Temple school and since Laina’s head was being crammed with it anyway, she figured she might as well learn all the undead-repelling spells she could.

The draugr arose and it was a hulking beast of what once had been a man. Laina managed to cast Vampire’s Bane twice before it closed in on her with a sword of what looked like pale blue-green ice. Stendarr’s Aura shredded the draugr but its sword was quicker than Laina’s spellcasting, cutting a wound down the left side of her face that almost left her blind if it wasn’t for a well-timed blink.

The injury burned like ice and Laina stumbled back, almost tripping over an ancient pot. The draugr laughed cruelly, said something in what she assumed was Dragonish, and raised its sword to finish her off.

She threw a Vampire’s Bane spell into its own face and used the resulting explosion to fall back, recast Stendarr’s Aura and quickly down a magicka potion before throwing the weaker but less draining Sun Fire spell at it. After three throws, it kept advancing, and Laina feared she was going to die here. What a way to go.

But the flaming draugr collapsed less than three feet from her, the evil blue glow in its eyes dying and the ice-blue sword clattering to the ground.

Laina collected the sword, the bone meal and the grave goods located in a chest by the sarcophagus. She would be late back to Bruma but hopefully Philomena would forgive her on seeing the strange blue sword.

…

Philomena, in the end, had to consult the books in the chapterhouse’s archives to identify the material the strange sword was crafted from. “Stalhrim,” she finally said, pointing to a paragraph in _The Fall of the Snow Prince._ “Ancient Nords had some way of creating enchanted ice that never melted. Being Nords, they shaped it into arms and armour or capped their tombs with instead of finding a practical purpose for it.”

“Dragon Cultists were obsessed with death and immortality,” Laina told her, holding a poultice to her slashed cheek. It would scar but she hadn’t lost her sight through grace of the gods. An Apprentice her age had no reason to be delving into forgotten ruins, even in search of necessary ingredients; Philomena would need to make sure she remained closer to Bruma. Losing a student of her calibre would be a blow to the Synod. “That’s why so many of their higher-ranking priests and warriors were buried with entire complexes of draugr, ready to rise if their masters – draconic or otherwise – required it.”

“You speak as if dragons were real,” the Evoker said slowly, putting the sword back on her desk. Laina was the only who could wield it without suffering stiffened fingers from the constant cold.

The girl paused, thoughtful, before speaking. “My grandfather was a Blade. I saw the bones of dragons preserved in Cloud Ruler Temple and the carvings in the Dragon Cult tomb today. Nords know dragons existed… because we rebelled against them and overthrew them in a time before Saint Alessia had ever existed.”

As a woman from the shores of the Niben, Philomena had taken it as a given that the true history of humanity began when Saint Alessia had thrown off the chains of the Ayleid oppressors and united humanity to overthrow the world’s elven overlords. Oh, the Nords had existed before that, but she’d have hardly qualified the Atmoran-derived culture as a civilisation in the proper sense. They didn’t have writing until one of their people adapted the Merish alphabet to their language!

She’d guessed Laina’s reticence was partly derived from Blades’ ancestry – she was just old enough to have clear memories of the time before the Bruma Purge and the Fall of Cloud Ruler Temple – and the strange guilt Ondolemar displayed whenever he checked up on the girl. There was no need to discuss it with anyone when the Thalmor were stalking around, looking for Nords to accuse of Talos worship and execute after horrific tortures. Philomena feared that the elves were trying to break the Nords of Bruma, no doubt driven by troubling rumours of a rebellion in Skyrim’s west a few years ago. Skyrim was rumbling with discontent and sooner or later, it would explode, and the violence likely spill over into County Bruma.

It was Philomena’s job to keep her Apprentices alive until they became Journeymages. After that, it was Arcane University’s problem.

“I don’t doubt it,” she finally said. “But Laina, you do _not_ need a reputation as a tomb raider. This once can be forgiven because of the circumstances but the Synod does not have anything to do with the dead unless we’re laying them to rest.”

“I won’t be going back there in a hurry,” she admitted, gingerly touching the poulticed cheek. “But the sword and ivory amulet… They’re the first bits of my heritage I’ve ever had. Nords had a tradition of magic, Evoker, one that’s been forgotten by us and mocked by the Cyrods and mer. Dario Mago _laughed_ at me when I said I believed in dragons.”

“And you may keep them,” Philomena assured her. “Perhaps you should consider the artefact research track once you’re at Arcane University. The faculty is always travelling around the Empire, studying ancient cultures and determining what magics they used.”

“And work with Evoker Paratus?” she asked wryly. “For now, I’ll stick to the alchemy and enchanting track. It’s not as glamorous but the money’s more reliable.”

Decimius Paratus _was_ notorious for being a better bureaucrat than a mage, Philomena had to admit, and his racism towards non-Imperials was… notable. “As you wish. You’ve certainly got the skills to reach Evoker by the age of eighteen or nineteen. It’s not as prestigious but… well, as you said, the money is more reliable. Nothing wrong with spending a couple decades building up your resources and reputation before going into independent research.”

“Maybe I’ll write a revised _Herbs of the Imperial Province,_” Laina mused. “I still hold First Adjunct Oronrel’s original treatise as lacking in substance when it comes to the herbs of the northern Counties.”

Philomena grinned. “He’s never been north of Skingrad.”

“I know.” She rubbed the back of her neck, then picked up the ice-sword and the ivory amulet. “I should run a magical analysis on the stalhrim. If I can replicate it, I could recreate one of the Nords’ greatest magical achievements.”

Philomena nodded permission and the girl left her office.

The Evoker sat back down and tapped her chin thoughtfully. First Adjunct Oronrel was the chancellor of Arcane University. Perhaps she should write to him about the Journeymage who was about to descend upon his faculty…

…

“I’m being transferred to Markarth.”

Ondolemar, as he still thought of himself, glanced down at the young woman who’d grown so much from the child he’d found in the ruins of Cloud Ruler Temple. Laina was subdued and reticent with almost everyone excepting that herbwife in the stews of Bruma she associated with; there was something in the woman’s spare bones and tall frame that made him think of Sigdrifa, though he’d met the Shieldmaiden the once. Her reputation in the Synod was that of a quiet Apprentice who preferred study to socialisation. Suitable enough as a young adolescent but as she grew older, a reputation of solitude might draw concerned attention from the powers-that-be. The lone mage could be a dangerous creature.

“I’ll miss you,” she said softly. “Why Markarth?”

“Because it was a hotbed of rebellion for both the Reachfolk and the Stormcloaks,” he admitted. “Because I’ve built up a reputation for diplomacy and a certain… civility… towards humans, they’re dispatching me there to keep the boiling pot under control. The Dominion isn’t ready for a second war with the Empire and the absolute _last_ thing they want to deal with is an independent Skyrim.”

“I’m guessing my mother and her new husband have them nervous,” Laina noted.

Ondolemar threw her a surprised look. “You know?”

“That old herbwife in Bruma is maternal kin who survived Markarth,” Laina said quietly. “Mother cut her down without a blink. Fits with what I remember of the woman.”

She gave him a sideways glance. “You should talk to her before you go to Markarth. I… told her about Marius but she doesn’t know who you are. The Forsworn keep their secrets as well as the Blades.”

He supposed they did. “That was a danger, Laina, you shouldn’t have risked.”

“Life is dangerous. The Dominion’s trying to break humanity before their Second War Against the Empire,” she replied. “I’m going to Arcane University in a few months as a Journeymage. A Nord who is a magical prodigy will attract notice, Ondolemar. I will need to be careful.”

“Then you’d better start making friends,” he advised. “The lone mage concerns the authority.”

“Philomena said as much. The next two years will be interesting. If I stay in the alchemy and enchanting track, I could be an Evoker by the age of twenty.”

“I would recommend it,” Ondolemar agreed. “Independent research can wait.”

“She said that too.”

They walked for a little bit along the switchback trail to Cloud Ruler Temple. Every year in the late summer, he went up there to say prayers for his dead brethren, betrayed by their Emperor and their Grandmaster.

“When you are an Evoker, go to Elinhir and study at the Mages’ Academy there if you can,” he finally said. “Your father’s alive and made a life in Hammerfell. You even have a little brother named Cirroc.”

Laina’s expression was pensive. “We’ll see. There’s something to be said for being an orphan with no kinship connections.”

Ondolemar nodded as they finally reached the ruins. “It’s your choice.”

The actual prayers took very little time. The Priests of Arkay, at Irkand’s behest, had laid the unquiet dead to rest at Cloud Ruler Temple a few years hence. But still Ondolemar prayed for his dead brethren. Someone had to.

Fittingly, the sun was red as blood when they returned to Bruma. Neither of them would ever return.

…

Catriona squeezed the hands of her granddaughter gently. While she wouldn’t leave for Arcane University for a few months, it was time to make her farewells, for Gwen had called her home to Glenmoril. Time it was Matriarch Catriona returned to the hill-clans and took up the fight once more.

For a moment she studied the girl’s forearms and the intricate feather-patterns she’d tattooed along them. Feathers for Kyne, blue-green for her eyes; any Reacher seeing these tattoos would know she was of their blood. Only the diehards in the hills now tattooed their faces. To do otherwise in Markarth or the lowlands was to invite prejudice and even death.

“I _knew_ it was the half-human elf,” she finally said in the language of the Reach, which she’d managed to impart to Laina. “He’s playing a dangerous game.”

“He’s been doing it since the time of my great-grandfather Julius Martin,” Laina reminded her.

“Even the most experienced dancer can miss a step.” Catriona sighed and shook her head. “Pride comes before a fall, as those Aedra priests say. I know that better than most.”

She squeezed Laina’s hands once more before letting go. “If you need _anything_, come to Glenmoril Cavern, but keep a low profile in Falkreath Hold. Dengeir and Sigdrifa pretended she never spent time in Bruma, the former fears magic and I heard the latter tried to kill your father. You look very much like your mother once they see past the nose.”

Laina nodded with a complete lack of surprise. “If I go to Elinhir as Marius suggests, I’ll catch a boat from Anvil to Sentinel, then cross the Alik’r Desert.”

“You remember how to call animals and water?” Catriona asked anxiously.

“I do,” Laina confirmed.

“I wish you’d studied Conjuration more. Atronachs are useful.”

“Forbidden to the Synod, remember?”

“Mirabelle Ervine was right. They’re all bloody idiots.” Catriona kissed her granddaughter’s forehead. “You should go to the College. I’m pretty sure Mirabelle, Tolfdir and Faralda are there.”

“Perhaps in time. I need to graduate from Arcane University first.” Laina hugged her, tears in her eyes. “I love you, Grandma.”

Catriona returned the embrace. It was rare for a Hagraven to weep. “And I you, lass. But go and be the mage you were born to be.”

“Keep your eyes out for _Herbs of the Northern Counties_,” she suggested with a watery laugh. “I’ll be published yet.”

“I will,” Catriona promised.

And she did.


End file.
